


One of a Kind

by fckyeahgallavich



Series: Requests/Prompts [20]
Category: Shameless (US), gallavich - Fandom
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Canon-Typical Behavior, Discrimination, Domestic Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Fist Fights, Homophobia, Hospitals, Hurt Mickey Milkovich, Hurt/Comfort, Ian Gallagher Loves Mickey Milkovich, Injury, M/M, Married Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Minor Violence, Protective Ian Gallagher, Slurs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-24
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:07:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25869400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fckyeahgallavich/pseuds/fckyeahgallavich
Summary: PROMPT: A couple of months after their wedding day, Mickey breaks his fingers on his left hand, his  middle and ring finger, (maybe at his work place) and has to go to the hospital. The doctor who is treating Mickey is homophobic.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher & Mickey Milkovich, Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: Requests/Prompts [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/878244
Comments: 49
Kudos: 423





	One of a Kind

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Iqra for betaing this piece and for the awesome title! I swear, I suck at titles so much and I'm in love with this one!

Besides the Kash n Grab, this job working security at Old Army was probably one of the easiest Mickey had ever had. The thieves were mostly young, not-so-struggling college students (typically white girls either doing a dare for her sorority or trying to nab something they couldn’t afford for a special party or whatnot). It was always easy enough to chase her down and get her to return whatever she tried to take — usually the reaper tattoo on his forearm and threat scribed on his knuckles was enough to get them to comply and return to the store quietly. One of the more amusing parts of his job was the number of girls who thought they could seduce their way out of his hold. He and Ian got a kick out of the number of girls who flashed themselves or tried to flirt their way out of trouble, to no avail.

The number of tough cases with his job he could count on one hand and the “toughness” of these scenarios weren’t so much about difficulty but about the amount of effort the person put into escaping or being released.

Mickey was good at his job and the company damn well knew it. The manager thanked him countless times for the thousands of dollars in shrink he’d saved them in this past quarter and Mickey couldn’t lie, it felt kind of good. It felt like redemption. It also felt like a bit of a lie, like turning his back on his own roots. He’d grown up stealing because he had to, so it felt more than a little hypocritical that he was shaming these people for doing the same thing… But then, Ian always reminded him of _who_ he was catching — the exact same people who made Mandy feel like shit when she wore second-hand stuff from the Goodwill, making her feel like she had no choice but to steal what she wanted in order to fit in. So maybe that was why he didn’t feel so bad about tackling these assholes; they stole for fun or because of a sense of entitlement, not because they actually _needed_ what they were lifting. He’d never encountered a single mom stealing baby clothes or a streetrat that reminded him of himself, Ian, or Mandy. All of these people were well-off enough that they usually (though not always) ended up paying for what they’d tried to steal, so it was clear that a vast number of these idiots never needed to steal in the first place.

Maybe this was the reason that Mickey had been so under-prepared for the day that a real _thief_ came into the store, why he had his defenses down until it was too late.

Oliver, one of the twinks that Mickey works with, called him over the headset to tell him about a guy trying on new Nikes and looking like he was getting ready to put his old shoes in their box. Mickey let him know he was on the way when Oliver blared into his ear: _that’s the guy!_

Thief turned around, apparently hearing the voice screeching from the headset, and lifted his sandy blonde eyebrows at him. Mickey scanned the thief from the guy’s green eyes sitting roughly five inches above Mickey’s head down to the stranger’s feet, raising his own brows as he recognized the Nikes they’d only just received yesterday.

“Nice kicks,” Mickey grimaced, raising his arched brow to the guy who scoffed and turned on that perfectly brand new heel. “Just put on the shoes you came in with and nobody has to get hurt,” Mickey promised, following his leisure pace to the door. The guy kept walking. So Mickey sped up to get in front of him.

“Dude. It ain’t worth it. Just take ‘em off, give ‘em back, and nothing bad’s gonna happen.” Sandy-blonde pushed forward and Mickey threw his tattooed arm out to stop him but Thief shoved his arm back, sending Mickey over to the side. Mickey huffed and grabbed the guy’s arm, activating his headset with his other hand and calling into the microphone that he needed mall security backup and the cops to be called. Mid-order, Sandy-blonde whirled around and tried to punch Mickey in the face, which Mickey was able to deflect with his forearm, swinging it out to whip the guy’s arm away. What he then wasn’t expecting was the sudden knee lodging its way into Mickey’s diaphragm, knocking the wind out of his lungs. Sandy-blonde then elbowed him in the back, further disorienting him.

“God… _Dammit!”_ Mickey gritted out in gasps, suddenly finding himself collapsed to his hands and knees on the tile floor. “ _Fuuuuuuck,”_ Mickey groaned, pulling himself up off the floor to chase the thief who was now on his way to the front of the store.

“Cops and security are on their way, Mickey!” Brittany the cashier’s voice shrilled in his ear. Ignoring the tightness in his chest, Mickey pressed forward, picking up speed and darting around customers who stopped in the middle of the aisle to watch the drama unfold.

“Move it! You’re in the way!” He shouted at the people gawking, actually having to push someone gently aside to narrowly avoid crashing into them as he continued his sprint to the front of the store. Finally, he was in the perfect position to leap on the douchebag — sending them both crashing through the entrance to the store. Fortunately, the doors, always held open, had no one standing directly in the way, so no one else was taken down by Mickey’s tackle.

Sitting on the guy’s backside, Mickey reached behind him and tugged at the heel of the sneaker on the guy’s foot, but the guy kept kicking and flailing to buck Mickey off him.

“Just gimme the fuckin shoes!” Mickey grunted, throwing one hand on the middle of the guy’s back to hold him steady as his left hand worked to wriggle the shoe off his foot. He heard the rubber _thud_ of the sole of the shoe hitting the concrete floor and reached farther behind him to collect the item to throw it back into the store, but that’s when the guy gathered his core strength and rolled. Mickey on his back, the guy climbed on top of him and sent one, then two punches directly at his face. With the third punch, Mickey was able to cover his face with his forearms and jerked his knee blindly into the guy’s backside — apparently hitting him straight in the balls if his groan was anything to go by. Mickey tossed him over and with his left hand, held the guy down by the chest and reached for the remaining shoe with his right hand. He looked up at the flutter of movement in his periphery — Brittany stepped outside of the store to grab the freed shoe and backed away quickly, eyes wide at the struggle taking place.

Another sudden movement on the left grabbed his attention and next thing he knew, he was pulled forward by the front of his shirt and splitting pain erupted across his forehead. He gasped as he realized the fucker had head-butt him! Forehead-to-forehead. Mickey groaned and started to reach up to cradle the spot, but then he heard a sharp bark break from his own chest. 

The pain was delayed, he didn’t feel it right away even though he’d reacted to it immediately; his whole left arm shook violently as he struggled to keep the thief in place, but a few moments later, the sharp, stabbing pain blazed across the base of his ring and pinky fingers. The creep slid out from under Mickey’s hold, and though his stomach roiled with nausea from the pain and his vision was still slightly disoriented from the hard head-butting, he surged forward and, with his right hand, grabbed hold of the guy’s ankle, tripping him.

A mall cop arrived at that moment, eyes blaring wide at the display.

Mickey snatched the sneaker from the thief’s other foot and tossed it with a huff to Oliver standing beside Brittany. The cop finished cuffing the thief and Mickey, with his right hand only, helped him haul the guy up to standing.

“Whoa, man,” the cop beside him blew out sharply, eyes poised downward. Mickey followed his trail of vision and his own eyes burst open at the state of his hand. The alignment of his finger from below where his wedding bands rest and above was… off. The pinky finger seemed to vibrate in its spot cradled, no… fuckin _spooned_ , into the concave of the other. Nausea roiled through his stomach at the sight as bursts of red and purple bloomed inside the new unnatural curvature of his fingers.

“The fuck did you do to me?!” Mickey roared at the thief who only shrugged.

“You wouldn’t let me go… I made you let me go.” The guy’s voice was not nearly as deep as his tall stature would lead most to believe, but the tone itself was dead, empty. Mickey grimaced and held his hand gingerly with the other, wincing a little as one finger brushed the underside of the two injured ones.

“Want me to recommend they add charges of aggravated assault?” The mall cop asked. Mickey rolled his eyes.

“I don’t really give a fuck right now, man,” he grunted honestly, shaking his head.

“Well, I’ll send the responding officer to the hospital while you get that fixed,” Mall Cop offered. Mickey shook his head, feeling his eyebrows inch higher in irritation.

“Sure, a’right, thanks,” he grumbled. 

From there the mall cop was going to take this guy to an office somewhere in the mall that, so far, Mickey had never needed to find. Normally, Mickey would file paperwork on the attempted theft and fill out a police report himself. But with an injury, and a steadily intensifying one, he knew (with great irritation and aggravation) that he was going to have to get his fingers set by a doctor. The store’s manager, Shirley stood at the entrance to the store with her lips clasped shut, probably between her teeth.

“Mickey,” she started, but Mickey held up his uninjured hand and stopped her.

“Clearly I’m takin’ the rest of the day off,” he grumbled, his brows set in an arch to express his irritation. She grimaced and nodded.

“Policy is usually for you to go with another employee…” Shirley mentioned awkwardly as Mickey wandered back into the store. As they walked he turned his head in her direction and raised a brow to communicate how he felt about such a policy. “I know, I know. I knew you wouldn’t like that.”

“It’s nobody’s business,” Mickey huffed irritably.

“The company is wary of scams —” Mickey halted his step and turned so they were nearly toe to toe.

“This look like a fuckin’ _scam_ to you?” Mickey stuck his broken fingers in her face for emphasis. She closed her eyes and sucked in a breath, seeming to gather patience at the same time.

“I _know_ it’s not, Mickey. But policy is policy and I have to include it in the incident report.” Mickey rolled his eyes. He didn’t particularly care for anyone here. He didn’t particularly dislike anyone either but there wasn’t anyone he was exactly “work buddies” with, either. He rolled his eyes behind closed lids and continued walking to the back of the store.

“Fine. I’m grabbin’ my wallet and phone and I’m out. Whoever’s goin’ with me can meet me at the door or they can catch up.” 

It was a toss-up between Oliver, for being the one to call him to the thief, and Brittany, who witnessed most of the violence, but Brittany wound up with the golden ticket and privilege of accompanying a very grumpy Mickey to the ER to set his fingers. 

“I know you’re not thrilled about being escorted, but it’s really important in case something goes wrong or you need something. Plus I’ve got a car, so at least you don’t have to take a bus or train with those broken fingers! Who knows how badly you’d be jostled on public transportation, you know?” she gushed as they walked through the mall to her aforementioned personal vehicle. Mickey rolled his eyes and decided not to say anything. It was a more comfortable experience, riding in a car rather than navigating public transportation, this much was true. But wasn’t this exactly the kind of thing for which he had Ian down as an emergency contact? Who would actually be better to assist him with the insurance and bullshit like that than his husband?

Speaking of which… 

Buckled into the car, a nice and sparkling brand new cherry red Corolla, Mickey pulled out his phone, using the swipe function to send a text to his husband: **Hey, nbd but I need the insurance info.**

That was one of the perks of legal marriage: better health insurance rates when you’re paired with your spouse.

“So… ER or Urgent Care?” Brittany asked as she pulled out of the mall entrance. Mickey looked down to his thoroughly swollen, dislocated, discolored fingers and sighed.

“ER.”

Ian’s response didn’t chime in until they had already reached the hospital — it was to be expected since Ian was also working today.

_What for? You okay?_

**Ian** **3:26PM**

_Fuckin moron thief broke two fingers._

_Headed into Holy Cross ER._

**SENT** **3:27PM**

_I’ll be there as soon as I can._

_Downloading image (2)…_

**Ian** **3:30PM**

Mickey downloaded the pictures of their insurance card as Brittany curved around the front of her car to open the door for him. He groaned internally as he realized she was going to try helping him with his seatbelt, and so pocketed his phone so he could use his right hand to unlock the seat belt from the fastener and slowly draw it back to its place against the side of the car. She indeed opened the door for him and he swung his legs around to exit the vehicle, injured hand pressed close to the chest to be extra careful not to bang it on anything.

 _God, the throbbing_ … Though he supposed that meant there was no nerve damage so he tried to find it in himself to be grateful for the pain.

Brittany blanched beside him as though seeing the injury for the first time.

“Doesn’t that hurt?” she asked. He gave her a look to communicate how crazy she was for asking for such a stupid question.

“Well it’s not a fuckin’ tickle,” he replied sans heat. She grimaced and held the door open for him, then the next door.

“Ian coming?” she asked. He was out at work and Ian had been by a couple of times to “pick him up” (if riding the L or bus together could be considered “picking up”).

“Says he is,” Mickey answered. “All I needed was the insurance card, though,” he mumbled. She grinned.

“He’s worried about his baby,” she cooed. 

“Oh Jesus, no. None of that,” Mickey begged, though a small smile hinted at one side of his mouth.

“Not pet names kinda guys?” She asked.

“Yeah, but Fuckface and Jackass don’t have the same ring to it as that ‘baby’ bullshit.” He smirked at her wide eyes.

“You’re joking?” she nearly pleaded. Mickey shrugged. He wasn’t going to explain his relationship dynamic to people. South side speak was its own language, one that you just don’t understand unless you’re from the area. Miss Brittany here, as much as she tried to understand the people from Back of the Yards, couldn’t hide her transparently clear privileged background. Still, she was nice enough and her sweetness was currently amusing to Mickey.

“You call your husband ‘Fuckface’?” She gaped.

“‘Course not!” He sounded aghast at such a thought and she started to look relieved when he clarified, “I’m Fuckface, he’s Jackass. And occasionally ‘Pussy’ if he’s bein’ whiny,” he added. Her brows shot up in shock, but a smile graced her face and he knew she was intrigued and likely amused. 

“You two are too much,” she laughed. 

The whole store had at one point or another seen them together and on more than one occasion he’d been told how they just ‘make sense’ — whatever the fuck that meant. In whatever case, their “making sense” to Brittany and people like her was probably why, though she clearly didn’t understand them, she still obviously adored them (another weird thing, being ogled over for being ‘too cute!’).

They reached the front desk and the receptionist had a sour look on her face that Mickey suspected was a permanent fixture.

“What’s your emergency?” She asked, devoid of any interest or passion in her tone. Though she was looking up at him and his injured fingers were clearly facing outward so anyone with _sight_ could see what was wrong with him, he supposed she _had_ to ask?

“Broken fingers,” he replied, equally monotonous and holding his hand out so she could _definitely_ see. 

“How did that happen?” She asked.

“I work security at a store in the mall and a thief broke ‘em to ‘make me let go of him,’” Mickey grimaced irritably as he quoted the guy, still dumbfounded that it had happened. She nodded, typing on her computer.

“Insurance?” 

“Uh, yeah,” Mickey mumbled, pulling his phone back out of his pocket and opening the screen up to the pictures Ian had sent him, then passed the device to the lady. She zoomed in and out on the image, grabbing the information she needed and inputting it silently.

“And you are Mr. Ian Gallagher?” She clarified.

“No, Ian’s my husband. The insurance is in his name but I’m on the policy,” he answered quickly. Her brows shot up but her face remained frozen, eyes trained on her screen. She cleared her throat and exhaled sharply through the nose. Mickey arched a brow at her demeanor… No way, this couldn’t really — 

“Your name?”

“Mikhailo, M-i-k-h-a-i-l-o, Aleksandr A-l-e-k-s-a-n-d-r, Milkovich M-i-l-k-o-v-as-in-Victor-i-c-h, Gallagher G-a-l-l-a-g-h-e-r.” She input the name and handed the phone back. Mickey side-eyed Brittany, looking to see her expression — furrowed brow and mouth in a hard line. So it wasn’t just Mickey… Something was weird about this lady.

“And… the policyholder is your... _legal_ spouse?” she clarified, voice practically raising half an octave at the word “spouse.” Mickey’s brows furrowed, definitely catching on to her discomfort. Jesus… Christ. Not fucking _now._

“Yes,” he replied as calmly as possible though his blood heated a little with the adrenaline as he also caught on to the “legal” part. What the fuck other kind of “husband” or “spouse” is there in 2020?

She bit her lip and tapped repeatedly at the TAB key.

“So, this is a work-related incident and I can assume this young lady is a co-worker?” she asked.

“Yes,” Brittany answered.

“Are you a supervisor or part of management or administration?”

“No, but I saw the whole incident.” The nurse nodded and put together a clipboard of forms, handing it to Brittany with a clipped and practiced efficiency.

“Do you take medications, Mist — Mikhailo?” She seemed to stutter a little bit at his name… as though she had to think about it… Or changed directions mid-word. And her pronunciation was painfully off, but rather than correct her Mickey just shook his head no. “Any allergies we should know about?” Mickey shook his head again. “Alright,” she muttered, putting together another clipboard, grabbing from different stacks hidden away behind the top of the desk. “Fill these out while you wait for a nurse to escort you back, I expect it should be roughly a half-hour wait, though might take forty-five minutes.”

Mickey looked behind him to find a painfully open waiting area and arched a brow, but shrugged, and accepted the clipboard, not sure how else to respond. If it was going to take two hours there would be nothing he could do about it so why would he have anything to say about thirty minutes to forty-five? 

“She seemed… weird,” Brittany muttered as she sat down beside him.

“Okay, so that _wasn’t_ just me?” Mickey checked. Her brows shot up and she shook her head emphatically.

“Oh no, she definitely had an issue for some reason,” she asserted. Mickey grimaced and looked down at his knuckles and reaper on his arm. Through his lashes Mickey glanced back at the reception desk and he huffed a deep breath.

“Maybe she’s got an issue with ink,” he guessed, crossing his leg to create a sort of desk on his knee.

“Sure,” Brittany agreed, though she didn’t sound any more convinced than he did. They both knew what the fuck was happening. But try calling it out, especially when nothing ‘wrong’ had happened yet.

The clipboard wobbled as he wrote, injured hand cradled to his chest to resist the instinct to rest his left on the other side or underside to support the thing. Brittany switched to the chair on his left and carefully reached out to stabilize the clipboard for him.

“Thanks,” he acknowledged with an exhale. 

**Name**

**Age**

**Birthdate**

**Address**

**Insurance**

**Reason for visit**

**Allergies**

**Have you ever (Medical history)**

**Injury history/Surgical history**

As he worked through the form, Brittany did her best to look away to give his privacy for which he was grateful. After this trip Mickey was probably going to have a much higher respect for her; hell, he might even like her.

It was easy enough since he basically got to check “None” by all of the medical history boxes until it came to writing down what happened. Having to move his hand along the page as he wrote was a frustration and a half, even with Brittany’s help.

“Why am I writing this down again? Wasn’t that the point of her asking me when I fuckin’ got here?” He grumped, focusing on his penmanship to ensure its legiblity.

“They really ought to have desks here or something for this exact reason,” Brittany huffed almost immediately after his complaint. Mickey smirked.

“Start a petition, freedom fighter,” Mickey teased. She narrowed her eyes.

“Har har,” she grimaced. He smirked and returned to completing the form, signing the bottom with a little flair on the “Gallagher” part — just to piss off Ms. Nose-in-the-air. “Okay, let me fill this out and I’ll take them both up there for her,” Brittany murmured, pulling out her phone to call Shirley about the insurance information.

Mickey pulled out his phone and noticed another text from Ian.

_Because of course traffic would be ridiculous today._

**Ian 3:39PM**

_Just get here as soon as you can without killing yourself._

_Also, beware: the receptionist is a homophobic cunt._

**SENT 3:46PM**

Mickey rolled his eyes behind closed lids and tried to focus on anything but his throbbing fingers and knuckles. At first his mind circled to the creep that _broke_ his fingers, but then he remembered the moment the prick broke them and he almost felt sick remembering the _crack_ and _pop_ sounds.

“Ugh,” Mickey groaned looking around the waiting area to find a magazine or something. Brittany looked up at him, brows raised in concern. Mickey shook his head. 

“Gettin’ your fingers popped isn’t as fun as you’d think,” he joked without humor. Brittany grimaced as her eyes flashed to the injury but darted back to his face.

“I’m sure your worker’s comp is going to be — ,” she placed the tips of her fingers to her lips and popped them in a chef’s kiss gesture. Mickey smirked.

“If I wanted to get rich off of worker’s comp I’d’ve gone to work construction and fallen off a scaffold or some shit.”

Besides, Mickey really didn’t care about worker’s comp (well, at least not beyond having enough to make up for the lost hours while he recovers). He _liked_ working. He _liked_ earning his way and not worrying about who his schemes or the drugs he pushed were hurting. While, granted, his scams on the wealthy didn’t exactly tug at his heartstrings, robbing local convenience stores and bar owners had never sat well with him, even as a kid. And that guilt only got more intense as he grew up and realized how fucked up his childhood had been. Though the guilt wasn’t so intense that he hated what he did. He and his whole family did what they had to do to survive and there was no shame in that.

It was complicated, his upbringing. And this was simple and he was grateful to have a moderately paying job that sustained his family well enough.

Beside him, Brittany fiddled with her phone and grabbed his attention when she was done with whatever it was she was doing.

“Okay, so my job is to stay until your hubby gets here and we have a prognosis,” she announced, gathering his clipboard to stack on top of hers. Mickey nodded absently, not really giving a shit about the bureaucratic crap right now. When she returned from the nurse’s station a couple of minutes later she had a sour look on her face. “Okay, that lady is just a fuckin’ crab. Guess that’s why she’s not back with actual patients, her bedside manner must _suck,”_ she vented in a stage whisper. Mickey smirked and ran a finger against the bridge of his nose. Mickey felt his phone vibrate and opened the screen.

_Of course she is_ 😑

_I’ll be sure to charm her real good before_

_telling her to go fuck herself._

**Ian** **3:54PM**

Mickey snorted loudly and chuckled under his breath as he typed his reply to not go Hulk Hogan on her without the ACLU or HRC on the phone.

Brittany arched a brow beside him and he rolled his eyes, showing her the texts. She made a choking sound as she clenched her lips together to hold in her laughs.

“You two are _too much!_ ” she repeated.

“Mr. Gallagher?” A feminine voice called from across the waiting area. Mickey and Brittany looked up at the same time and stood to find the nurse calling for him.

She led them through the back doors into an open room with lines of beds with curtains between and she set them at a station. She immediately pulled out her oxygen sensor, clipping it onto the index finger of his right hand. She then offered a thermometer with the ridiculously thick plastic sleeve and he rolled his eyes as he opened his mouth, lifting his tongue.

“Good and good,” the nurse murmured as she discarded the plastic sleeve and retrieved the oximeter from his finger. Next came the blood pressure cuff and he suddenly wondered to himself if Ian'd practiced this on his family while studying to be an EMT, and how many times he would have made Mickey let him practice on him had he been there. It was a sad thought, but he didn't dwell on it.

“We’re going to give you some NSAID for the swelling and get those rings off before getting you to the x-ray, you did say you have no allergies, correct?” She asked as she wrapped the cuff around his arm.

“Yeah… No…?" He huffed irritably and tried again. "No, I don’t have any allergies,” Mickey confirmed awkwardly. She inflated the cuff with a smile and he arched his brow at the absurdity of getting an x-ray with a break like this. “You really need more proof that my fingers’re broken?” he asked lightly. “They’re practically making a finger-gun at you.” The nurse laughed in a light huff and smiled as she listened to his pulse, deflating the cuff a few seconds later.

“That BP is a little high, though that could be the adrenaline and stress,” she murmured, writing down the numbers. Mickey rolled his eyes. It was probably his two-pack-a-day smoking habit before his injury, but fuck if he was going to contradict her. She handed him a little cup with small orange pills and then another small cup with water after he tossed the pills back.

“There won’t be any issue with keepin’ ‘em, right?”

“The rings?” She clarified. Mickey nodded. “Oh of course! We just can’t get a solid read on the x-ray with them on because they’re metal. And they’d need to come off for surgery and recovery anyway… Swelling,” she added apologetically. Mickey looked down at his rings sitting so proudly where they’d pretty much stayed since Ian had placed them there only three months before.

“Isn’t his sister a welder?” Brittany offered. Mickey nodded but grimaced.

“Doubt her industrial sized blowtorch is gonna help with somethin’ like these,” he murmured. He could practically feel Brittany’s answering wince from his right.

“I’m sure there’s jewelers who can solder them back together,” the nurse smiled warmly. He gave her a grim look but nodded, gulping around a lump in his throat. 

One was the ring Ian had bought in order to fight for him — he’d taken Liam with him to have a second opinion, choosing one that he just knew that Mickey would love… Because he knew Mickey so well… And the other was what Mickey had chosen for their forever. Initially the white gold band had left a sour taste in his mouth from how Ian wanted to call it a “promise ring,” (still couldn’t figure out how Ian ever expected _that_ bullshit to slide) but it quickly turned into one of his most precious possessions when he finally agreed to marry him because he finally decided to take that leap of faith.

Well, evidently that “forever” was being (literally) cut short.

He closed his eyes and huffed an irritated and sad sigh, knowing he was being ridiculous.

Their forever wasn’t being cut short… it was just a piece of metal that, as the nurse said, could be put back together again. He’d just… hoped that maybe he’d have uninterrupted and solid possession of his rings for… what? A year or two before they got fucked up somehow? 

“I’ll get the drill,” the nurse murmured sympathetically.

When she returned she was accompanied by another person, but Mickey couldn’t tell if he was a doctor or nurse. Surely it didn’t take a doctor for something like this?

“Hi, how are you doing?” the stranger asked. Mickey nodded but said nothing. “Yeah, I wouldn’t be up to talking if I was going through that, either,” he laughed. Mickey narrowed his eyes and furrowed his brows.

“And who’re you?” Mickey asked absently.

“I’m the one that’s going to be putting those fingers back together,” he smiled broadly. But the expression didn’t reach his eyes. Mickey’s stomach turned as he picked up on something… weird about him, but was frustrated as _fuck_ that he couldn’t figure out what it was exactly that had him wary.

“Ain’t this shit a nurse normally does? Or an EMT?” Mickey challenged as gently as he could, knowing that this wasn’t usual because Ian himself had cut rings off before. If someone like an EMT or nurse could do it, then why was a doctor coming in before it was necessary? The doctor shrugged.

“I was around and Ms Dani here needed some help — it’s a two person job, you see, because the sparks flying from this drill can burn the skin so I need her to pour lubricant over where we’re going to be drilling. Mickey’s brows remained furrowed because… that still didn’t really answer his question. Why the fuck was a doctor helping with something this small? 

The doctor slid a small table on wheels over and pat his freshly manicured hand on the table, his own yellow gold wedding band flashing in the fluorescent light.

“Let’s see what we’re dealing with, Mikhailo,” he boomed cheerfully. Mickey and Brittany exchanged looks and once again he was glad to see that he wasn’t the only one confused by the behavior of this staff. He extended his hand forward and the doctor grabbed at the palm, laying it down on the table palm up. Mickey winced as the pressure from doc’s hand triggered the nerves in his fingers.

“Tender?” The doctor asked. Mickey’s answering irritated breath grumbled in his chest. “Well, that might actually be a good thing; it’s less likely that there’s nerve damage or shards of bone dislodged in there.” Mickey nodded and watched as the doctor slid the metal underside of the drill under his rings, to which Mickey, again, winced, his toes curling in his shoes to try containing the pain. Nurse Dani handed him a set of thick glasses, already adorning a pair herself. He slid on the glasses and watched in fascination as the kind nurse started pouring what definitely felt like your general lubricant, like what Ian and Mickey use only a little thinner, over his fingers. The doctor, also wearing a face shield, turned on the drill and Mickey’s stomach leaped mid-way into his chest as the loud vibrating sound started and the circular serrated drill bit started to spin furiously. The lump in his throat thickened as he watched the sparks fly from his rings and he had to bite his mouth as a reminder to school the pain he was feeling.

Jesus Christ, they were just bits of metal… But for fuck’s sake after everything they’d done… how hard they’d fought for what those little circles of metal symbolize… It just didn’t seem fair.

And maybe it’s not fair, but… Well, he could get a jeweler to fix them, he’d make a claim with the company to cover the cost if he had to.

The nurse was liberal with the lubricant, being sure to keep a steady stream going so Mickey felt as little discomfort as possible. It took a few minutes for the doc to saw all the way through the white gold band since it was significantly thicker than the first which practically broke in half as soon as the blade touched it. As he felt the momentary grind of the drill on the metal barrier against his finger, the vibration ricocheted into his chest. And as the doc pried the pieces of metal apart, his heart seemed to pull right along with them. They bent so easily as the doc bent the cut ends apart, easily sliding the curved pieces around and off his finger. Mickey huffed a sad breath and held out his right hand for the rings just as the doctor turned around and tossed them away in the trash.

“What the — ??”

“ _Fuck?!”_ Brittany finished.

“Doctor, I told you he wanted to keep them!” Nurse Dani cried. Mickey stood and charged to the small red bin, toppling over the small table in front of him — he couldn’t see even a glimmer of metal.

“Oh, it’s alright, Dani. Marriage is just something you can find in a crackerjacks box these days,” the doctor muttered too cheerily. But the underlying hatred and disgust was still so present that it set fire to Mickey’s veins as he continued searching the top of the bin, praying to find them. “There’s more where those came from,” doc sneered.

Mickey leaned over, right hand outstretched to sift through what looked like soiled wrappings… Did he? Was this _really_ a fuckin’ biohazard bin?!

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” the doc called as Mickey stood there, hand outstretched, vibrating with fury and sadness — No, sadness was too plain a word. No… Sorrow, grief… Those were the more accurate words for how much this tore at his chest.

All they’d done… All _he’d_ done for his now-husband… Literally trash to this guy.

A soft hand cupped his shoulder and he jumped a little, but knew instantly it had to be Brittany. Her cheeks flamed red and she was panting. Had she told the doctor off? The sound of blood rushing in his ears and the violent anger which he currently struggled to keep in check must have deafened him to his surroundings.

Mickey trembled with rage and he realized absently that his eyes stung from unshed tears as he remembered Ian presenting the ring to him for the first time, then Ian finally sliding the simple white gold band on his finger for the first time a month later when he finally agreed to marry him. He’d stared at the band for hours, anytime he was alone or upset or missing Ian at work… Just for the fuck of it… And then there was how he and Ian had sorted through the various ones Sandy lifted for them before they’d both landed on the black twist. They’d both loved how the traditional white gold band and unique twist looked side by side. Because, in truth, there was nothing traditional about them; and this next step, _marriage,_ was certainly going to be an adventure of its own because they would surely put their own unique “twist,” so to speak, on the institution.

The doc was gone, but the nurse stood by the curtain looking horrified.

“I — ” she gaped. Mickey just shook his head, at a total loss, for probably the first time in his life, of what to say. He stepped back to the raised cot and sat on the edge. The doc had moved too fast for him to stop him…

“I want a different surgeon,” Mickey announced. The nurse nodded emphatically in agreement.

“Is there anything else I can get you?” she asked kindly, voice shaking and sounding painfully grieved considering it wasn’t even she who did anything wrong. Mickey pinched at the corners of his eyes and swallowed hard at the rising lump in his throat. He was about to say ‘no’ when he suddenly remembered the bitchy nurse at the front desk.

“Uh, yeah… My husband should be getting here soon, if there’s any issue with him comin’ back here —”

“I’ll take care of it, I promise. And…” she bit her lip for a mere second, worrying it beneath her teeth before grimacing. “I’m… So, _so_ sorry that this —” Mickey shook his head, cutting her off.

“Shouldn’t even be fuckin’ surprised,” Mickey grumbled, brows raised as he remembered the lady at the flower shop when they were looking to order the flowers for their wedding… The venues they’d walked away from because, even though they were willing to accept their money, it was clear from their demeanors, from the way they side-eyed them when they thought their prospective customers weren’t looking, that they weren’t happy about hosting a gay couple’s nuptuals. Then there was the fact that they basically had to hi-jack the place where they actually _did_ get married. Did it bother him to do it? Not in the fucking slightest. But it bothered him that they _had_ to do it that way. 

Mickey was _sick_ of homophobia. He’d grown up hating himself because he knew he was gay and knew few if any people in his life would be okay with it and then even now that he doesn’t mind himself, hell even likes himself, he’s still got to watch out for daggers being thrown at him and his husband just because they fell in love with each other instead of women. It was bullshit.

And now the symbols of his devotion to Ian, and Ian’s devotion to him, were gone. Those two little pieces of metal that he’d fought so fucking hard for… trash. The fucking _last_ thing he wanted to deal with after all of this bullshit he’d dealt with already would be for someone to try to prevent Ian from _their goddamned right_ to see each other.

The nurse left and Mickey was just grateful that there was at least one reasonable person here. Brittany came around to stand in front of him, head shaking in disbelief.

“I can’t… This is — !” Mickey nodded, not really feeling like indulging in the anger for now. She turned to look at the biohazard bin and he could practically hear the gears shifting in her head.

“Don’t even worry about it,” Mickey grumbled. 

“But… Both... Those were your — ”

“I know what they were, thanks,” Mickey snapped. Brittany winced and watched him cautiously and with a deep sadness in her eyes. “It ain’t worth gettin’ fuckin’ AIDS over,” Mickey grumbled, knowing he was being gross and not giving a shit. Brittany’s answering grimace said enough about his comment. He just shook his head and shifted until he found a comfortable way to rest his throbbing hand on his thigh.

Mickey pulled out his phone to find a message from Ian.

_You weren't kidding about them_

_being homophobic shits._

**Ian 4:15PM**

_Oh, it gets even better_

**SENT 4:27PM**

_Someone should come get you tho_

**SENT 4:28PM**

_What do you mean it gets better?_

**Ian 4:30PM**

Ian was sure to flip his shit, Mickey had no doubt, and he didn't want him to do so before getting back here and chance getting his ass thrown out by security.

Just as that thought occurred to him, the flash of orange out of the corner of his eye alerted him to Ian's arrival. Ian sighed a harsh breath, eyes alight with anger but also relief.

"Mick," he breathed as he crossed the small distance to stand before him. He took Mickey's face in his hands and kissed him sweetly. Mickey smiled sadly after they parted. They just stared at each other in relieved silence for a long moment before Ian rolled the stool Dr. Prick had previously occupied to him and took a seat.

"Did a nurse let you back here?" Mickey asked with a grunt.

"Well, after the bitch at the front desk I waved my badge at a nurse, so technically yeah." Mickey gave him an incredulous look, a little surprised it had worked. "Was gonna pretend to need a signature or some shit if that wasn't enough," he laughed. Mickey laughed too at the shitty lie.

"A signature? On what form, genius?" he remarked, gesturing to his empty hands. Ian rolled his eyes and, as though subconsciously, Ian took Mickey's injured hand in his.

"Jesus... How the fuck — ?"

"I wasn't letting go... so he made me let go," Mickey paraphrased from the dick. Ian's brows shot up.

"I'd fuckin _say_ so!" Mickey blew out an aggravated breath. "I see they already got your rings off. You been to the x-ray yet?" Anxiety suddenly rushed through Mickey's core at the question, knowing what he had to say next... but what he desperately wished he didn't have to say.

"Not yet..." Mickey grimaced and removed his injured hand from Ian's, but allowed Ian to accept his right hand instead. "About my rings..." Ian raised his gaze from his husband's fingers to his own eyes. 

Realization suddenly darkened those green orbs and his mouth tightened into a hard line.

"Where are they?" he asked as though simultaneously willing his worst assumption to be false. Mickey darted his eyes to the biohazard bin. Ian turned in the stool and practically growled.

“Are you _fucking_ kidding me?”

"I've already got a new surgeon comin'," Mickey mumbled, defeated. He was simply too exhausted to be angry. From the rush of adrenaline from chasing and wrestling the thief, to working to ignore the constant burning and throbbing pain, to the second rush of adrenaline and rage at the doc... Mickey just couldn't find the energy to continue his anger. Ian damn near looked like he wanted to cry.

"I'm glad, but we need more than that! We need for him to fuckin' replace them!” 

"I'm so sorry to you both," Brittany murmured behind Mickey, reminding him of her presence which he had completely forgotten. Ian turned his attention to her and shook his head in disbelief.

“I mean... _Fuck!”_ Ian pushed forward as though he hadn’t heard Brittany, though obviously he had. He ran a hand over his face and shook his head in frustration. “He shouldn't even have this _job_ if he can't treat everyone the same!" He raged. 

They were all silent for a pregnant moment as Ian struggled with his anger. Mickey completely understood Ian's intense feelings — he'd felt the same, after all. But as the adrenaline from that anger wore off, the pain started to creep back in and it was taking a lot of Mickey's concentration to not show how much he felt.

"I..." Ian's mouth dropped and snapped shut a few times as he fought for words. "I guess I'll call up a lawyer when you're feeling up to it," he murmured mutely, clearly so shocked that he was simply at a loss. Mickey exhaled sharply, desperately wanting to just change the subject. Being angry about this wasn’t going to magically fish those rings out of the trash.

"I've never needed surgery before," Mickey mumbled awkwardly. Ian's attention flashed to Mickey, his eyes alert and even a little exasperated — with himself the look somehow communicated. It was as though he was silently beating himself up for focusing on the wrong thing.

"Don't worry, they'll just give you local anesthesia, so you won't go under, and you shouldn't feel a thing. They're probably going to have to reset the bones with some small pins, but it could be that you won't even need that." Mickey nodded, but the crowded feeling in his stomach from his nerves did not dissipate.

Ian placed his hand lovingly on Mickey's knee.

"It'll be okay, Mick," Ian promised. Mickey met his eyes to Ian's and though he was still a nervous wreck at the thought of someone just kinda... _poking_ at his body like that, even just this teeny fraction of it, the certainty in Ian's eyes was comforting. _This wasn't a big deal... this wasn't a big deal..._

Nurse Dani came to collect Mickey then for the x-ray. When the _new_ surgeon arrived to show the damage, Ian sighed a breath of relief at the image lit up on the wall.

"Yup, they're broken," Mickey snarked before the doc could start his spiel. The new doctor laughed genially and Ian, standing now to Mickey’s right, squeezed Mickey's shoulder. When he looked up to Ian's face he looked grim, probably knowing that Mickey's humor was to deflect from his nerves. It set Mickey at ease a bit, having the doctor laugh at a situation like this, though he hated to admit it considering the last prick who seemed fine at first.

"Yes, they definitely are, I'm afraid," the doctor agreed with another chuckle. "The good news is there are no bone splinters so I do not believe you will sustain any nerve damage, and the break is pretty clean and in just the right place that I don't believe there will be any _substantial_ permanent deformation to the shape or alignment of your fingers." Mickey nodded, a little more relieved.

"How long before I'm good to get back to work?" Mickey asked. Doc winced. 

"That is going to be a while, I'm afraid... I believe six to eight weeks." Mickey groaned. The doc nodded in sympathy.

"I understand you might have some anxiety about the procedure, but I can assure you it will be relatively quick and there may be a _strange_ sensation that some patients describe as a ‘pulling’ as we work, but it shouldn't be painful during the procedure." Mickey bit his lip, feeling every bit of that anxiety. He didn't miss how he specifically said 'during the procedure' either, so he was just going to be in a decent amount of pain during the recovery time, basically. Swell.

"I can go home tonight?" Mickey asked. Doc smiled and nodded. "Brittany, you gotta stay?" Mickey asked, realizing how long she'd been with him at this point. She shook her head.

"Nope, my job here is done once I report everything back to Shirley for the paperwork." Mickey nodded and rolled his eyes behind closed lids, biting his bottom lip as he fought the unfamiliar feeling of discomfort rushing through him. It was remarkable how quickly he'd become accustomed to living his life free from fear and anxiety and discomfort. He used to live with practically nothing but, so he didn't even know what to do with himself now that something so small and simple was causing him so much stress. It annoyed him a bit to tell the truth.

"But I can stay if you guys want a ride home or something...?" Brittany offered. Ian looked to Mickey, letting him make the decision. Mickey turned his gaze to the doc.

"A car ride might be a little more comfortable than public transit, and certainly quicker so you can get started on your rest and recovery," the doctor offered. Mickey turned to face Brittany again.

"You sure?" he asked. She smiled warmly.

"Of _course,_ Mickey! I know _I_ wouldn't want to mess with the L after all this!" Mickey nodded and thanked her.

"We'll give you gas money and — "

"Ugh! No way! I'm serious, it's no big deal," Brittany promised. Mickey arched a brow at Ian, knowing he would slip her a twenty somehow but begging him not to fight her right now.

"Okay, are you ready to get this done, Mikhailo?" Doc asked kindly. He breathed out harshly between his closed lips, vibrating them as he huffed.

"As ready as I'm gonna be," he allowed. Ian moved to the side to allow Mickey to stand and follow the doctor and nurse out of their little cubicle. Before he left he hugged Mickey and reassured him one more time that everything was going to be fine.

Considering the less than lukewarm greeting from the nurse at the front desk followed by the homophobic prick of a doctor before this new guy, Mickey was anything but relaxed as he settled onto the chair/table-like surface. Mickey was willing to bet money that this new guy had been filled in on what Mickey had so far experienced with this bullshit hospital; the guy was a little _too_ nice, _too_ patient. He assured Mickey that they were going to do this as quickly as possible so he could, direct quote: "get back home to relax a little with your husband." Mickey had quirked a brow but at least he knew the guy wasn't literally disgusted by their marriage.

His assistant explained to Mickey the anesthesia they would be using, exactly as Ian had described, and stayed with Mickey to talk to him while they let the drugs kick in. He wasn't exactly an open book or active participant in the conversation, but she was trying, and the doc joined in when he came back roughly fifteen minutes later. They asked if he and Ian had a family, children of their own. When Mickey answered "not yet" they gushed at how he and Ian were such a handsome couple and would surely have a beautiful family if that was what they wanted. The effort screamed 'damage control' to Mickey, but the kindness and sincerity in the delivery of their words told him it wasn't just that. He suspected they actually felt somewhat bad for how poorly he'd been treated here. Though he could distantly appreciate their need to make him feel more comfortable, to smooth over what had made him so prickly and defensive, it was still more annoying than anything. He wanted them to get on with the surgery and let him go home.

He closed his eyes during the procedure and did his best to ignore any jostling sensation. For the most part his hand was thoroughly numbed but the doc hadn't been kidding when he'd warned him about potential "pulling sensations" as they worked. He just kept his eyes closed and pretended to be somewhere else.

He replayed their tossed-together wedding in his mind; he specifically thought about the look in Ian's eyes throughout their special day. As he'd walked down that aisle, his nerves had been afire with worry that on top of everything that had gone wrong in the morning that Ian would then also change his mind _again._ He'd fidgeted so hard during his walk to his to-be husband as he worked to contain his anxiety that Sandy had to keep pulling at his other arm to get him to settle down. He'd been almost sure that his eyes were playing tricks on him as he walked toward the love of his life and on that freckled face was love and confidence and excitement rather than worry or indecision or regret. Ian had stood there with his shoulders back, chin held high, and eyes alight with pride; but even then Mickey's nerves hadn't settled until he heard Ian recite his vows... nearly shedding a tear when instead of using his legal name Ian had called him by _his_ name, _Mickey._

And then the rings... He huffed out a little breath of remorse and irritation remembering how recent it was that he'd received those rings and how ridiculous it was that they were gone. It was especially cruel that he had been upset enough at the thought of needing to get them soldered back together, but now considering the current reality he’d truly give just about anything for the chance _to_ solder the ends back together if it just meant that he’d keep them. It would be a story to tell their kids if they ever did adopt one or two. It would be a marker of yet another instance where Ian had been there for Mickey… Another time that they’d faced bullshit but made it through stronger on the other side.

Oh well. That wasn’t happening and Mickey was going to have to get the fuck over it. They’d go to jewelers and try to find something close enough to Ian’s to pass for a matching set.

His mind drifted to their honeymoon and the little wrestling match they’d had in the backyard just the other day, the shower they’d shared this morning and his plan to maybe have a repeat when they get home so he could go to sleep in his husband’s arms feeling clean and warm.

Before he knew it, his doctor was chirping out, “Alright, Mikhailo, we’re all done here!” His eyes flashed open as though startled from sleep — maybe he had fallen asleep? — and he looked down to his hand where his two broken fingers were splinted to his middle finger. “In a few weeks we’re going to have you back to take a look and see if we can transition you to a slightly less restrictive splint, but with how substantial that break was — ”

“I get it,” Mickey interrupted, but not even in a rude way. He sounded exhausted to his own ears. The doc gazed on in sympathy.

“Adrenaline crashes… They wipe it out of you,” he murmured kindly. Mickey nodded. He knew all about that. It was the emotional exhaustion that weighed on him even more than the physical from said adrenaline crash. He wanted to be in Ian’s arms and on their way home. Now.

The doctor went over pain management and handed him a small bottle of percocet along with a refill prescription that forbids refilling before the date written on the paper. No opioid holidays, apparently, Mickey had joked. The doc had laughed but it sounded a little uneasy. Mickey rolled his eyes behind closed lids and asked if he could go home now.

Walking back down the hallway so he could do just that, there was some clanging and grunted speech sounding from the line of curtained off cubicles. Mickey furrowed his brow and sped up to get back to his little square of space only to nearly be knocked down by the previous doctor rushing from the curtained flap. Mickey jumped back to avoid the collision and Ian stepped out immediately after.

“We’re not leaving here until you fuckin’ make it right,” Ian snarled. Mickey’s eyes shot wide open. He hadn’t seen Ian this worked up, this angry in… God, it’s been years.

“I’m _not_ sticking my hand in there!” Dr. Prick said decisively, but a little skittishly as he fidgeted with his coat.

“ _You_ tossed ‘em in there, you damn well can get ‘em back!” Ian demanded. He reached out and before anyone could stop him, he wrapped his hand firmly around the back of the doc’s neck and pulled him in closer so he could twist the guy’s arm behind his back. “It’s not _my_ problem that you’re a homophobic _fuck,”_ Ian hissed in the doc’s ear before shoving him back into the cubicle. Mickey’s brows were raised into his hairline and he only just noticed that his mouth was dropped open.

Brittany rushed from the area with a similar shocked look on her face. When she met eyes with Mickey her face drained of all color.

“I never — you… The way you described — ”

“Hey, I’m as shocked as you are,” Mickey interrupted, holding his good hand up in a surrender gesture.

“I notice your Good Doctor just kind of…” Mickey twisted around both ways and indeed found the hallway empty. He smirked. She still looked freaked. “Should we…?” she gestured vaguely at the “room” and Mickey shook his head, even as he heard the crashing and rustling of what must’ve been the biohazard can being overturned.

“I don’t give a flying _fuck_ !” Ian’s voice called out, though Mickey hadn’t heard what excuses the doctor was clearly trying to give. “The quicker you _find_ them, the quicker _I_ let go of your neck!” Ian added cheerily.

Two minutes later the doctor fled the curtained off space without a word or even glance at Mickey or Brittany. Ian emerged a few moments later with the two pried open bands of metal pinched between his fingers, a proud and calm smile on his face.

“Sorry you had to see that, Brittany. These are kind of one of a kind, like I explained to you…” Brittany shook her head as though saying “Oh, I totally understand!” but it was clear in her eyes that she was still freaked out by the gentle giant’s sudden outburst.

“I told you not to Hulk out without the ACLU on the phone,” Mickey teased bumping his shoulder against Ian’s as he started his walk to Brittany’s car. He didn’t need to see Ian to know that he’d shrugged.

“What’s the point in waiting for a _possible_ lawsuit that _might_ pay us back for the monetary loss when we could just get them back and be done with it?” Ian argued.

“If you’re not collared for assault first,” Brittany interjected worriedly. Mickey looked over his shoulder and gave her a confident smirk.

“A homophobic prick like that’ll never admit to getting his ass handed to him by a fag,” Mickey laughed.

“Not to mention he’d basically have to admit to discriminatory action while working with a patient,” Ian added. 

“If he’s smart he’ll keep that between us,” Mickey agreed. They reached the front doors and Brittany huffed a harsh, worried breath, clearly dissatisfied with Mickey’s casual attitude with the violence. “I’m gonna have a smoke, a’right?” Mickey called as she pushed forward. She turned and nodded, looking both ways before crossing to the parking lot. Ian’s barely concealed laughter reached Mickey’s ear and he grinned too as he struggled to pull a smoke out of the carton with one hand. Eventually the redhead flipped open the top of the package himself and drew the cigarette out by the filter, sticking it in his husband’s mouth and lighting it for him before grabbing one for himself. 

“I take it she’s not familiar with the negotiation methods of south side?” Ian joked under his breath as he lit his own cigarette. Mickey shrugged, sucking on the cottony filter with a satisfied sigh. 

“Eh, she’s good people,” he allowed, flicking the ashes off dismissively. Ian nodded and his face fell a little. Mickey’s brow arched in encouragement.

“Sorry if I…” Ian struggled with himself for a second before shaking his head and saying dismissively, “I dunno…,” and sucking on his cigarette again. Mickey’s brows furrowed at Ian.

“What you did was bad fuckin’ ass, Ian. If I could’ve done it I would’ve!” Ian’s mouth quirked up a little on the side.

“You could’ve,” Ian argued. Mickey shrugged as he took another drag.

“It would’ve been too easy for him to fuck my shit up, I was already in pain and exhausted.” Ian nodded in understanding. Brittany pulled up to the curb, but seeing they still had some left on their cigarettes she turned on the hazard lights.

“Didn’t know you still had some south side left in you, Gallagher,” Mickey smirked playfully. Ian rolled his eyes, but grinned.

“Shoulda known goin’ postal on a homophobe would get you hard, _Gallagher_ ,” Ian teased back. Mickey smirked.

“Still, probably a good thing that cop from the mall didn’t show up, I guess,” Mickey thought aloud randomly.

“Oh, he already came by. I told him our address so he could come take your statement or whatever tomorrow.” Mickey nodded.

“Fine by me. I really don’t have any patience left,” Mickey groaned. Ian’s eyes softened with sympathy.

They finished their cigarettes and Ian opened the back door on the driver’s side so Mickey could fasten his own seatbelt. The drive home was mostly quiet with Mickey suspecting Brittany was either tired, still freaked out about Ian Hulking out, or both, and Ian was focused on giving clear directions to the house. 

As Mickey had guessed, Ian tossed a twenty dollar bill into her passenger seat and vacated the car before she could object. She rolled down the window and tried to hand the bill back but Mickey held his un-splinted palm up.

“It’s the least we can give you considerin’,” Mickey asserted. Brittany’s mouth quirked down in a slight frown. She tried one more time to pass the money back and Mickey shook his head. “Thanks, you know, for stickin’ around and for the ride.” Brittany lightened up a little.

“I hate what that doctor did… But I’m glad Ian was able to fix it…”

“...Even if you don’t like how he did it?” Mickey finished. She laughed a little awkwardly and nodded. “Yeah, well… Trust me, around here it could’ve been a lot worse. At least there wasn’t any blood.” She grimaced but he wasn’t sorry for saying it. All the time she and their other co-workers talked about Ian and Mickey as though they were these precious, adorable little gay dolls, and while normally he tolerated it without too much irritation, he wasn’t exactly upset at the idea that maybe that might stop now that she’d seen a little bit of his world.

“It’s sweet… in a different kinda way,” she allowed. “I’ll tell everyone that you’re okay and when you should be back,” she grinned. Mickey nodded once and she drove off.

  
Ian already had the shower going when Mickey walked in the house. The other Gallaghers looked up from their seats in the living room to ask if he was alright and how he was feeling and Mickey just sighed tiredly, shook his head as though begging them to just _not,_ and climbed the wooden hill up to his waiting shower. They both released deep breaths once Mickey entered the bathroom and closed the door. Ian ran a tentative hand through Mickey's hair, scrunching his fingers in the thickest part as though like a caress on the back of his head.

"How does your hand feel?" he asked quietly. Mickey shrugged and looked to the heavy duty equipment on the appendage in question.

"Still numb, I think," he muttered. 

"Good, cuz we don't have any cast covers, we're out of gallon size Ziplocs, and you definitely don't want to get that wet," Ian replied apologetically. Mickey rolled his eyes to the back of his head in exasperation. Ian looked on in sympathy and leaned in to kiss the crown of Mickey's head, Mickey going easily to let him. He was prepared to receive and appreciate literally any and all affection his husband was willing to give considering all of the bullshit through the day. "Just keep your hand out of the immediate stream and I'm sure you'll be fine. At least you won't be able to feel it while you move it!" He was clearly trying to sound supportive but that enthusiasm just annoyed Mickey, which he communicated with the narrowing of his eyes. Ian smirked and held the edge of Mickey's right shirt sleeve so he could slip the arm through and helped to lift the fabric over his head before slowly and carefully lowering the other sleeve down his arm and over the stupid splint. While Mickey unbuttoned his khaki shorts, Ian unlaced the sneakers and helped him kick them off followed by the socks. Mickey made a beeline for the shower, climbing in without a word and turning his back against the spray, waiting for Ian to join him once he was undressed.

The water was the exact right level of scalding that Mickey _loved._ As one might imagine, carrying so much irritation and attitude tended to go straight to the shoulders, especially on a stressful day. Ian announced his presence with his hands on Mickey's shoulders, thumbs digging right where the muscles were most tense right against his neck. Mickey hummed in appreciation and allowed his eyes to slide shut as he accepted the massage.

“Guess it could’ve been a knife or somethin’,” Mickey muttered. Ian made a noise behind him that sounded like disapproval. “My  _ point _ ,” he added before Ian could chide, “is… All this fuckin’  _ drama  _ over two damn fingers!” Ian’s hand paused on his shoulders. They stood there in silence for a long moment, the water beating on Ian’s back and lightly spritzing on the outsides of Mickey’s biceps.

“Well, then thank God it  _ was  _ only the two fingers, not something more serious,” Ian murmured gravely. Mickey’s stomach turned to stone.

“Yeah,” Mickey mouthed. Ian sighed and draped his arms over Mickey’s shoulders, clasping his forearms so that he held Mickey in a hug from behind, careful to keep his hands a healthy distance from Mickey’s injury.

“I’m glad you saved my rings…” Mickey breathed, just barely above a whisper. Ian kissed at the side of Mickey’s face and Mickey laid his head back to rest against Ian’s chest.

“You didn’t  _ really  _ think you’d be leaving that ER without them, did you?” Ian asked, teasingly incredulous. Mickey shrugged.

“How’d you find him?” Mickey asked. Ian released his hold over Mickey’s shoulders and when he returned to his massage, the fragrance of Mickey’s favorite body wash had him smiling.

“He came back, actually. Brittany screamed out ‘that’s him!’ and I knew she meant the first doctor. You showed up pretty quick after he got there.” Mickey smirked. “I’m pretty sure he pissed his pants when I grabbed him,” Ian laughed.

“No  _ way!”  _ Mickey barked.

“Let me dream, Mick,” Ian laughed. “Your knight in shining armor deserves at least that!” Mickey snorted.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re a regular ole’ Lancelot.” Ian swung Mickey around.

“Goddamn right I am!” The goofy grin on his husband’s face was irresistible and he couldn’t contain a matching grin on his face.

Though Mickey went to the hospital alone for his final check-up eight weeks later, Ian stood in the waiting area when he walked out, a pleasant and warm look on his face. He almost looked adoring. Mickey arched a brow.

“The fuck’re you so damn chummy about?” Mickey snarked playfully. Ian shrugged and pulled his hands out of the pockets of his jeans. When he arrived to Ian’s spot in the waiting area, Ian’s fist unfurled to reveal his wedding bands resting in the palm of his hand. 

Mickey’d be a liar if he tried to claim that the sight didn’t tamper with his heartstrings. The smile was so immediate, so reactionary that he didn’t even realize it was on his face until he looked up to see Ian’s grin and realized mere seconds later that their faces matched.

“You’re a sneaky bastard,” Mickey beamed, remembering the last time he’d said that when Ian arranged that (admittedly god-awful) guitarist like Mickey had requested to make up for that day’s fuck-ups. Ian wore the same slightly smug smirk, but with that wholly in love glimmer in his eye. 

“Let me see,” Ian murmured, holding his other hand out for Mickey’s. He placed his freshly unwrapped hand in Ian’s and watched as his husband tilted it over and slowly rotated it the other way so he could examine the still pink lines cutting down the lines of his fingers. “How’s it feel?” he asked gently. Mickey clenched and unclenched his hand into a fist, a little slower than he normally would, but still demonstrating that the joints and everything worked and it no longer hurt to bend. Ian smiled again, as though he couldn’t help himself.

“I take it that these can return to their rightful place?” Ian asked, as though asking permission.

“I dunno, I’ve gotten so used to being without ‘em,” Mickey teased. Ian glared playfully.

“I  _ know  _ I did not get these put back together so you can tell me you don’t  _ want  _ ‘em!” Ian griped. Mickey grinned deviously, and was unable to maintain the joke.

“Alright, put ‘em on if it’ll really make you happy,” Mickey said, acting blase though in reality he was overjoyed — like, to the fucking  _ moon _ — about getting his rings back.

Just like on their wedding day just five months before, the bands of metal glided effortlessly down his finger, across his knuckles, hardly even catching a snag until they settled at the cradle of the base of his finger. It probably wasn’t purposeful, but on the silver band, Mickey could see the line from where the ring had first been cut and then pieced back together.

“Really,  _ really  _ glad you got ‘em back,” Mickey repeated. They both stared at the set of rings finally back where they belonged, and if Mickey spent basically the rest of the day switching his line of sight between his freshly re-adorned ring finger and his husband’s face, mind your business. 


End file.
